This Is Where We Learn to Be Jewish Together

I understand the hesitation. Truly, I do.

Synagogue can feel like walking into a play mid-scene, in a language you don’t fully understand. The melodies unfamiliar, the choreography opaque, the mood shifting from solemnity to joy without warning. Maybe you walked in once and no one said hello. Maybe the sermon didn’t speak to you. Maybe you left wondering what you were supposed to feel—and felt nothing at all.

Or maybe, like so many others, your experience with shul was transactional. A few months of Hebrew school before a bar mitzvah. High Holidays, occasionally. A yahrzeit once a year. And then life took over—and your Jewish connection became something you outsourced: to Jewish summer camp, to a grandmother’s kitchen, to the annual Chanukah party.

I understand. But I also need to say something that spiritual leaders have too often tiptoed around: if you’re skipping shul, you’re missing something essential.

Not because synagogue is the only way to be Jewish—it isn’t. And not because we need more people in the pews. Frankly, shul attendance has never been the best metric of Jewish worth. But because Judaism isn’t a solo identity. It’s a people you join. And this—synagogue—is where we learn how.

Even for those who used to come regularly, COVID disrupted everything. Routines collapsed. Habits frayed. For many of us, what once felt automatic now feels optional. But the need didn’t disappear. The soul still needs a home.

So come back.

Come tomorrow and watch the next generation read Torah. Watch them chant ancient words from sacred scrolls, showing not just ritual participation but Jewish literacy. That’s a skill they’ll carry for life. No matter how much I loved playing baseball as a kid, or how fun pickleball might be today, nothing compares to a love and knowledge of Torah. One is a game. The other is a legacy. One keeps us active. The other keeps us Jewish.

Over the past two decades, Jewish life has become increasingly consumer-friendly. Everything is customizable, accessible, and convenient. You can stream services in pajamas. Order a lulav online. Skip the tefillah and show up just for the kiddush. We’ve built state-of-the-art JCCs, expanded Jewish film festivals, created rooftop Shabbats and cultural salons. Much of that is good. Necessary, even.

But we’ve confused content with covenant. We’ve mistaken programming for peoplehood. We’ve tried to sustain a 3,000-year-old tradition on a rotating calendar of community events—and then wondered why our kids feel unanchored.

You can’t build a Jewish future on cocktails and cooking classes. You can’t teach identity through events alone. What endures is presence. What transforms is relationship. What binds us is a shared sense of destiny, rooted in sacred obligation. And that gets built—quietly, steadily—in places like shul, where we don’t just show up for each other, we sit next to each other. Week after week. Year after year. Generation after generation.

Ron Wolfson has said it for decades: religion is relational. And he’s right. For some, spirituality might be solitary. But for most, most of the time, it’s not just about God. It’s about being part of something bigger than yourself—something ancient, flawed, human, and holy.

If you only come to synagogue when it’s urgent—before a bar mitzvah, during a mourning period—you’ll be welcomed. But you likely won’t feel known. Community isn’t built by appearing once and disappearing again. It’s built in the mundane: the slow accumulation of shared time, shared stories, shared prayers. It’s built when people notice that you’re missing.

We tell our children that Judaism is a lifelong journey—but we treat it like a performance. Show up when there’s an audience, recite your lines, exit stage left. And then we’re surprised when they don’t know the script.

But Jewish identity isn’t formed in big moments. It’s shaped in the quiet rhythms of Jewish time: lighting candles on Friday night. Standing for Kaddish. Whispering “amen” even when your heart isn’t sure. It’s formed when a child sees their parents walk to shul—not for show, not for someone else, but because it’s what we do. Because it matters.

Let’s be honest. Synagogue isn’t always transcendent. The davening stumbles. The sermon meanders. The room is half full. But I still go—because it’s mine. Because even when the liturgy falls flat, the people are real. Because I like seeing the teenagers talk Torah in one corner and the retirees argue about Israel in another. Because I know someone will ask how my week was—and mean it.

Synagogue isn’t magic. It’s practice. It’s where we learn to live out the values we say we cherish: gratitude, resilience, joy, memory, humility, hope. It’s where we teach our children the words of our ancestors. It’s where elders are honored not for their resumes, but for their wisdom. It’s where grief is held, joy is shared, and no one says Kaddish alone.

You don’t have to be fluent in Hebrew or spiritually on fire. You don’t need to believe every word. But you do need to show up—and stay long enough for someone to notice.

Because community takes time. It takes presence. It forms when someone saves you a seat. When your child’s tutor becomes their mentor. When you cry during Kaddish and don’t need to explain why.

This is how Jewish peoplehood is built—not on hashtags, headlines, or perfect attendance, but in sanctuaries and social halls, in Kiddush lines and Torah circles, in the everyday rhythm of showing up and being seen.

You can read national synagogue statistics. You can follow Jewish trends from a distance. But come see what’s happening here, in this community—and I promise, you won’t be the same.

Come meet the 81 children in our religious school, the 23 teens learning Torah after school, the 12 students preparing to become b’nai mitzvah—not as performers, but as inheritors of something sacred.

Synagogues aren’t box scores. You don’t measure their success in data points. You feel it in the room. You feel it when someone saves you a seat. You feel it when the Shema catches in your throat. You feel it when you realize: I’m not alone.

Jewish community is not an event you attend. It’s a people you become. And becoming takes time. It takes commitment. It takes showing up—even when you’re tired, even when it’s snowing, even when you’re not in the mood. Because if we only show up when it’s easy, we’ll never build a community strong enough to hold us when it’s hard.

You can’t outsource Jewish life. You can’t transmit memory without living it. You can’t expect a child to love Shabbat if we’re always too busy to stop for it ourselves.

So come. Not because the service is perfect. Not because you feel guilty. But because this is where we learn to be Jewish together.

Because something real happens here.

Something that doesn’t stream.

Something that doesn’t scale.

Something that will last longer than baseball or pickleball.

Because you matter here.

And we’re better—stronger, more grounded, more whole—when you’re with us.